


Tether

by ps3ud0nym



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassination Attempt(s), Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Galra Keith (Voltron), Gladiator Shiro (Voltron), Imprisonment, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 05:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15236625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ps3ud0nym/pseuds/ps3ud0nym
Summary: Prince Keith is assigned a new bodyguard. Shiro finds himself in the service of a strangely human Galran.For a moment, Shiro thought he had misheard. He couldn’t remember a time anyone had wanted to know his name since he was tossed into the arena. He had a prisoner number and the Galra-given moniker of Champion. No one cared about his name.“Shiro,” he said, throat feeling tight as he choked on an unnamable emotion. “Please call me Shiro.”Keith nodded slowly. “Okay, Shiro.”





	Tether

**Author's Note:**

> “A person moving in zero gravity feels a pitiful helplessness. One wrong move and you find yourself spinning wildly.” – Ulrich Walter

A Galran officer bumped into Keith as he exited the training room, knocking into him hard enough to bruise. There was no doubt the officer had meant to do so. Keith let his hand rest on the handle of the knife sheathed at his lower back in case the officer meant to instigate an impromptu challenge by attacking without warning – it wouldn’t be the first time.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t see you there,” the officer said, making an obvious jab at Keith’s height.

“It’s fine, officer. Carry on as you were.”

He didn’t release his grip on the knife until the officer had disappeared down the corridor, and then he signed in the silence, losing the tension that had gripped him in the face of a possible threat.

It was late. The halls were mostly deserted. He was tired from just finishing a grueling training session. Now would’ve been a prime time for an enemy to attack, when a fight could've spelled his death.

Keith felt like he'd spent his entire life fighting.

He was born the great nephew of the Emperor, premature and sickly, on a day marking the ten thousandth anniversary of Daibazaal's destruction. Everyone had labelled his birth date a bad omen and expected him to die before he could really live, but he had survived. Once healthy enough to be separated from his mother, he was put into the care of Governess Dayak, a strict, brutally efficient teacher who constantly compared him to his older cousin Lotor and found him lacking, which led to increasingly dangerous training sessions.

Unfortunately, Dayak wasn't the only one unimpressed with him, and this couldn't be remedied by a simple change in behavior. Like his cousin, Keith was a half-breed, but unlike Lotor, Keith's Galran heritage wasn't obvious. His fur-less skin was a pale shade of peach instead of purple, his pointy ears were small, and rather than solid yellow, his eyes were white with purple irises. Worst of all, he was small.

He didn't look like a Galran. People were prepared to dislike him for that fact alone.

When he was a child, Keith desperately tried to earn the acceptance of those around him, struggling against others' inherent dislike, but since then, constant hardship had taught him the value of self-acceptance and hard-earned knowledge had given him perspective.

Though his life never became easier, his priorities were better defined. He was more level-headed than he'd been as a child, and now he didn’t feel an uncontrollable need to gain anyone’s favor. In fact, attention of any kind was more troublesome than favorable. The acceptance of his fellow Galra was only important to him if he could use it to accomplish something important – and he could, if he exploited his status for certain things.

Being a member of the Royal Family afforded him liberties unavailable to other Galra. He had authority over almost anyone not working directly under the Emperor, was allowed extended vacation-time from his studies to visit planets controlled by the Empire, and, of course, could access information others weren’t privy to, whether it was meant to be shared or not.

He had to be careful how he used these liberties. Use them too much, they may be taken away. Use them too obviously, he could attract trouble. It was like wielding a double-edged sword; his every move had to be calculated for maximum damage and minimum risk. People already disliked him, after all, and his status was the only thing sparing him from persecution. If anyone found a reason to doubt him, they would leap at the chance to sully his reputation, and then the fight could be over for him, because Zarkon’s leniency would only last so long.

It sufficed to say Keith had enemies.

Everyone was an enemy in the Galra Empire. Betrayal was commonplace. It was customary to settle disagreements with duels and for the victor to earn spoils, including property and rank, from their fallen rival. However, it was also just as customary to backstab, lie, and cheat your way to victory. Keith, born into the Royal Family, was spared from having to climb through the ranks but not from the cutthroat manner of Galran society. He’d been involved in more duels, either to first blood or to the death, than he cared to remember.

Since birth, Keith had been defying death. It no longer shocked him. He’d lost track of how many times someone had tried to kill him, but they usually tried more indirect methods.

An assassin trying to shoot a hole through his head during the walk back to his personal quarters was a new development.

The assassin had a hulking figure, probably twice Keith’s size and five times his strength, and wasted no time attacking him with fists and guns. Keith, though tired and caught off-guard, was built for speed and had spent his life being pit against people bigger and stronger than him. He managed to stab his knife through the assassin’s throat after narrowly avoiding a blaster bolt to the chest. The bolt instead grazed his upper arm, leaving behind a stinging burn on his skin and a singe in his jacket.

He had only a moment to lament the damage to his jacket (this one was his favorite: cropped and red) before a beeping sound alerted him to the bomb stuck high on the corridor wall, digits ticking down on the timer.

Though Keith was down the corridor by the time the bomb exploded, blowing up a portion of the ship, he was inevitably caught in the explosion. 

 

He woke up in the infirmary on the Central Command Ship, alive, healed, and dressed in the standard issue medical robe for recovering patients. A Druid was hovering at the foot of his bed, hood casting most of their mask into shadow except for the glowing slits that served as eyes.

“Emperor Zarkon is most displeased by your recent brush with death, Your Highness.”

Keith looked away from the Druid to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Is he?” he asked, mostly for the sake of remaining polite. His great uncle was always displeased about something.

“You nearly died this time. It was a challenge to keep you alive,” the Druid said, sounding equally delighted and disappointed. “Mistress is also displeased that we were forced to waste such energy on you.”

This Mistress the Druid referred to was Haggar, his great uncle’s witch – or dark sorceress, as she preferred to be called. She was obsessed with quintessence, the most powerful energy source in the universe, and spent most of her time conducting experiments with it on living things. Keith was surprised she expended the effort and energy to heal him, even under Zarkon’s orders.

Keith wasn’t certain how to respond, so he said nothing.

“Measures have been taken to ensure you do not trouble us this way again.”

He sat up to face the Druid. “What do you mean?”

“Emperor Zarkon has seen fit to give you a gift.”

“A gift?” Not once in Keith’s life had his great uncle gifted him with anything.

“Please get dressed and I will show it to you.”

Keith dressed himself in the clothes provided within the compartment beneath his bed, tugging on a generic purple outfit that molded to his body. It wasn’t much, but it was better than a flimsy robe. His sheathed dagger and its belt were also stashed inside the compartment, so he strapped it to his waist, extremely grateful the weapon hadn’t been lost in the explosion.

The Druid led him through the halls towards the wing used to house important guests. Keith stayed in this wing whenever he was stationed at Central Command. He wasn’t surprised the Druid was ostensibly leading him to what would be his private quarters so much as he dreaded what he would find inside. The door the Druid stopped outside was at the very end of the corridor.

Without a word, the Druid opened the door and led Keith inside.

Typical of a guest’s quarters, the front room contained a couch, a table, and shelves for storage. The only thing out of place was the alien sitting on the floor in the center of the room with bound wrists.

The alien glared up at them as they entered, but as soon as it sighted Keith, its glare was replaced with a surprised, confused expression. Though Keith didn’t allow his face to betray his feelings, he shared the alien’s bemusement, immediately understanding why it was surprised, because it looked a lot like Keith.

Dressed in the standard slave garb, the alien was pale skinned, small eared, and very obviously not a Galran, yet its muscles and scars made it look intimidating.

“Your Highness,” the Druid said with a deferential bow that annoyed Keith and caught the alien’s attention, “allow me to introduce you to the Champion. He’s an undefeated gladiator from the battle arena. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

The Champion stared at them in suspicion. Keith had indeed heard of him. It was impossible not to catch snippets of gossip from Galra who enjoyed watching the gladiator fights. Moreover, Keith knew about the Champion because Ulaz was meant to help him escape – a mission that obviously hadn’t gone according to plan.

Keith had known he resembled the Champion, even suspected he might share ancestry with the Champion's species.

He hadn’t ever expected to come face-to-face with him.

“Why is he here?” Keith asked the most important question. “What’s the meaning of this?”

The Druid bowed its head. Keith imagined it would be laughing if Druids weren’t above such things. “Emperor Zarkon has seen fit to gift the Champion to you, Your Highness. He is to be your personal bodyguard.”

Keith froze. “Personal bodyguard?” he asked faintly. He couldn’t have a personal bodyguard. There was a reason he went through so much trouble to lose the last guards assigned to him.

“Yes," the Druid said. "Of course, I must remind you that the Champion hails from a primitive race. He does not understand our ways. Nevertheless, Mistress has put much work into him. He is a powerful weapon if used correctly.”

The Druid raised a hand and the bindings on the Champion’s wrists disappeared.

“Do be careful how you handle him.”

With that, the Druid disappeared from the room, abandoning Keith to the Champion's tender mercies. Fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to grab his knife (don't provoke the enemy unless necessary, Thace had taught him), Keith focused on the Champion, who quickly clambered to his feet, and wondered how well his training would fair against Haggar’s favorite test subject.

 

* * *

 

They came for him once he was healed from his latest match in the arena, a particularly gruesome, hard-won battle that had nearly ended him – he almost wished it had. Shiro had been dozing in the corner of his cell, trying to escape the horrors of the waking world through nightmares which weren't much better, when his cell was opened and three Galran officers stormed inside. It was three against one and the Galra were much stronger; they pulled Shiro out of his cell with little resistance.

At first, he thought they were taking him to the arena, but then he saw the Druid standing in the hall waiting for them and he began struggling.

The Galra were cruel. The arena was horrible. Being forced to kill to survive was deplorable. But the Druid's were worse. Shiro hated being experimented on worst of all.

His struggling was for naught, because even though he managed to subdue two of the Galran officers, the Druid zapped him with a blast of lightning-like energy before he could do more. He blacked out. When he regained consciousness, he was sitting in the middle of a spacious room resembling a living room and his wrists were bound together.

Since his capture, Shiro hadn’t been anywhere other than the arena, his cell, the infirmary, or the Druid’s lab. He was never brought to a new area for a pleasant reason, so he was immediately on guard, expecting the worst and growing increasingly agitated as time passed without incident. The longer he was left alone to stew in silence, watching the door for any change, the more he dreaded whatever was to come.

He longed for the safety of his cell. Though dank and unsanitary, it was the closest thing to a sanctuary he had; being elsewhere set him on edge.

The door finally opened and Shiro glared as a Druid entered, followed by a much smaller companion that instantly took Shiro’s breath away. The Druid’s companion could’ve passed for a human if not for their pointed ears and feline-like eyes that gleamed purple in the light. They were small, probably even shorter than Shiro, had a bob of black hair and wore a form-fitting purple outfit that starkly contrasted the armored suits most Galran officers wore, and from the shape of their slim body, Shiro guessed they (or rather, he) was male. There was a dagger sheathed to the person’s lower back.

Most unnervingly, the Druid’s companion had a young, pretty face. Shiro wasn’t prepared for it.

The Druid addressed its companion as ‘Your Highness,’ explaining that Shiro was meant to act as his bodyguard, which seemed to surprise him as much as it did Shiro. Then the Druid released Shiro’s restraints and disappeared with a final word of caution to its companion.

Shiro leapt to his feet. He tensed for a fight, mind flashing to countless previous incidents of abuse he'd suffered at the hands of the Galra, knowing just how cruel they could be to prisoners like him without any reason, but the Druid’s companion stood stiffly by the doorway, making no move to approach, not even to speak. They watched each other in the following silence. Shiro noted the tense line of the person’s shoulders and the impassive expression on his face that revealed no clues as to what he was thinking.

After what seemed like an eternity, when the silence had stretched too long, the human-like boy, supposedly a noble of some kind, opened his mouth to offer a quiet greeting: “Hello.”

“Hello,” Shiro cautiously replied. He licked his chapped lips. “What – who are you?”

The boy continued to stare at him. “My name is Keith,” he said at last. His voice was soft, calm and measured, a soothing sound in the otherwise overbearing silence, unlike the gruff voices that Galran officers used or the spine-chilling drawls of the Druids.

Shiro blinked in disbelief. That didn’t sound like a Galran name.

“What would you like me to call you?” Keith asked.

For a moment, Shiro thought he had misheard. He couldn’t remember a time anyone had wanted to know his name since he was tossed into the arena. He had a prisoner number and the Galra-given moniker of Champion. No one cared about his name.

“Shiro,” he said, throat feeling tight as he choked on an unnamable emotion. “Please call me Shiro.”

Keith nodded slowly. “Okay, Shiro.”

It felt like a benediction, hearing his name uttered by someone else.

“Would you like to use the washroom? I can get a change of clothes for you. Or if you’re hungry, we could visit the cafeteria.”

Keith didn't resemble a monster. His eyes didn't glow yellow. His voice was soft.

Shiro wasn’t certain what was happening. He didn’t know if this was a trick, if Keith was pretending not to be horrible, if this was a Haggar-induced delusion, or if he would wake up in his cell again and everything would’ve been a dream.

“I think I’d like to get cleaned up first.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow, Keith managed to avoid an altercation with the Champion, whose name was Shiro. He retrieved a fresh set of clothes from the laundry station, picking out a purple tunic and black pants that would probably be a bit large on Shiro but were some of the smallest readily available, and put them aside for Shiro when he returned to his private quarters. While Shiro used the washroom, Keith paced the length of the living room.

The situation was a mess and he had no way contact Kolivan. His communicator had perished in the explosion. Regular forms of communication would be too traceable. He would have to send Thace a coded message and request a meeting. They would also have to figure out what went wrong with Ulaz's mission. Shiro was obviously not on his way to Earth to warn them about the Galra Empire, and without him, the Blade of Marmora had no way to approach the Blue Lion without drawing unwanted attention and alerting the Galra Empire.

Kolivan wouldn't be happy. It would be difficult to salvage their plans, maybe even impossible. Kolivan didn't like things not going to plan. He hated improvising, claimed it was risky.

Keith wasn't thrilled either. He was useful because he had the freedom to go wherever needed and gather intel. Having a bodyguard accompanying him everywhere was a liability. His bodyguard could be compromised or used to spy on him directly, and a spy who was being spied on by the enemy was worse than useless.

He sighed, breath blowing at the ends of his loosely hanging hair. Realizing his hair had been untied since he woke up in the infirmary, he grabbed a hair-tie from the bedroom and tied it into a short ponytail so it wouldn't hang in his face.

"Okay." He sat on the couch, leaned forward, and clasped his hands between his knees. "Just stay calm," he whispered to himself. "Handle the situation rationally."

For now, he and Shiro had fallen into a hesitant, unspoken truce. Keith didn't know how long this truce would last, but he would try to maintain it as long as possible. He would wait patiently for Shiro to finish washing and then he would escort the man to the cafeteria for food, hopefully avoid running into any Galran officers on the way, and bide their remaining time together until Keith could meet with Thace and determine what actions to take next.

Of course, he also had to consider the troubling matter of someone hiring an assassin to kill him.

Keith sighed again. Recently, there was an invisible weight bearing down on him that had been steadily increasing, haunting him like a specter, unable to be ignored. He'd always known his time was limited. It was a miracle he'd survived for as long as he had already, but as the weeks passed, each bringing more foreboding than the last, he couldn't shake the feeling his fight was coming to an end.

This wasn’t something the Blades could help him with. This wasn’t something he could avoid and outrun forever.

Death was coming for him. It dogged at his heels, waiting for the proper moment to strike. Keith just hoped he could accomplish something worthwhile before that happened.

**Author's Note:**

> I might choose to continue this.
> 
> I have an idea how I want this story to go, but I’m a bit busy with other projects at the moment. If you want me to write more, let me know in the comments. Also, thanks for reading!


End file.
